


Goddamn Christmas Miracle

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Cliche Christmas Fic, F/M, Fluff, I Do Realize It's May
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:58:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His eyes narrow.  “What do you need?”</p><p>“I—well, first of all, I’m appalled at the insinuation you’re making here,” she balks.  “I just wanted to invite you to dinner.  On Christmas.”</p><p>“No,” he says, pushing through the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddamn Christmas Miracle

Dolls is _not_ staring at her like she’s a pod person.

“I’m not staring at you like you’re a pod person,” he says, defensive, as he sets her coffee in front of her.

Wynonna’s face goes through a very quick journey that _looks_ a lot like mock disbelief, eyebrows dancing just under the fuzzy brim of the Santa hat pulled too low on her head.  “Liar,” she challenges, “What—I can’t be jolly?”

“I agree with Dolls,” Waverly interrupts cheerfully from the doorway.  She’s carrying a box that’s about half her size, and he has a moment to wonder where exactly she keeps coming up with these things.  “It’s creepy.”

“I didn’t say it was creepy,” he says, face carefully blank.

“Didn’t have to,” she replies quickly, lugging the box up onto the table.  “You and me, we’re like this,” she holds up her crossed fingers with a playful smile.

Surreptitiously, Wynonna mimics the gesture at him and smirks.  With exaggerated irritation, he bats the pom-pom at the end of the hat as he passes behind her to close the door her sister left open.  “You’re not wearing that in the field,” he warns.

“Like _hell_ I’m not,” she crows.  “It’s Christmas!”

“It’s December fifteenth.”

She doesn’t respond but wrinkles her nose and rolls her eyes.

Later, when Officer Haught comes to them with another suspect _animal attack_ , he catches Wynonna by the elbow.  “Take that off,” he pleads.

Her eyes lock on his and harden and he readies himself for a fight, but then her shoulders loosen and she heaves a put-upon sigh and snatches the thing off.  “It’s more your style anyway,” she grumbles, dropping it on her sister’s head.

On their way out of the station, he leans close enough for their shoulders to knock.  “You’re covered in fuzz,” he murmurs.

“The price I pay for holiday spirit,” she huffs, trying to comb the fluff out of her hair with her fingers.

“You don’t strike me as the ‘holiday spirit’ type,” he continues inside the SUV.

He feels her eyes on him before she sighs, “I really hate the whole… shtick.  But Waverly is the physical embodiment of holiday cheer.  I’m surprised she hasn’t broken out the Christmas sweaters yet.  Must be really holding back.”  He snorts, and she hums very quietly.  After a moment of _almost_ comfortable silence, she shifts to face him.  “What about you, Deputy Marshall Dolls?”

“What about me?”

“Do you… do… holidays?” she asks.  Then, looking offended at the face he makes, she mumbles, “Eyes on the road.”

There passes a long silence bordering on sullen, and he can see her draw her heel up onto the seat out of the corner of his eye. 

“This is a year-round job,” he says eventually, voice steady but carefully light.

“Wow,” she answers.  “That’s—that’s actually kinda sad.”

“Nope, not doing that,” he warns, flashing half a smile.

\--

“What do you _mean_ Dolls doesn’t _do_ holidays?” asks Waverly suspiciously, poised with hammer and nail on top of a dangerously wobbly stool to hang garland.  “Is it like how _you_ don’t _do_ holidays?”

Wynonna scowls.  She doesn’t begrudge her sister’s ability to still happily celebrate (and decorate) and not bring every awful memory into the present moment—okay, so she might _a little_.  But she and her sister also have _completely_ different associations with the time of year.  She wasn’t troubled, or crazy, or a criminal.   She quashes that line of thought.

“He just shut me down, I dunno,” she finally answers, shrugging.

Wave makes one of those troubling, I’m-about-to-suggest-something-kind faces as she twists to look at her, and Wynonna starts to object but she interrupts, “He should come to dinner.  I invited Nicole, Gus is bringing a turkey.  It’s not like we won’t have enough food.”

“That’s _really_ sweet of you but I doubt he’ll say yes,” she says.  “He’s probably going to be very busy brooding and writing a list of all the things we could be doing instead of eating too much food.”

“Or—or, consider he’ll be alone, while we have friends and family and food to go around, and what if he’s sad,” her sister counters, hammering the nail (tack?) into place with one quick strike.

“I try not to consider him having any feelings,” Wynonna responds dryly.  “It’s too disturbing.”

She receives only an unamused stare.  That’s acceptable.

She caves, because of course she does.  “ _Fine_ , but you’re inviting him, because _I’m_ not doing it, I live with enough humiliation on that front as it is,” she says.  “And we’re not doing presents!”

“I can live with that,” Waverly concedes.

\--

The subject doesn’t really come up again for the next week, and he’d be naïve to assume Wynonna hadn’t mentioned it to Waverly, which… is actually probably why it went a week before he heard anything about Christmas from either of the Earp sisters.  But, inevitably, on the morning of December 22nd, Waverly Earp beats him to the station and accosts him before he reaches the door—already pretty suspicious.  And she brought him coffee.

“Thanks,” he says skeptically.  “Should I be worried?”

“About the coffee?  Of course not!  I wouldn’t poison the coffee—wrong sister,” she laughs.  Then she sobers.  “Not that… I don’t think Wynonna’s ever actually poisoned anyone.  Not here, anyway.”

His eyes narrow.  “What do you need?”

“I—well, first of all, I’m appalled at the insinuation you’re making here,” she balks.  “I just wanted to invite you to dinner.  On Christmas.”

“No,” he says, pushing through the door.

She follows on his heels.  “I’m not asking you to join the family,” she protests.  “We usually save that for Easter.”

“Funny.”

He shakes her off at Officer Haught’s desk long enough to get into the conference room, but she catches up with him.

“Come on,” she coaxes, tugging the door shut behind her.  “It’s dinner.  You’ve eaten with us before.”  He stares at her, trying to convey exactly what’s wrong with that with only a look.  “Christmas dinner—it’s just a good time with friends and-slash-or family.  We’re not exchanging gifts, this is not a pity invite, we genuinely enjoy your company and would like to feed you while cheesy carols play in the background.  What are you gonna do if you _don’t_ come to dinner with us?”

It’s the way her chin drops that shatters his resolve.  _Damn._

“What time is dinner?”

\--

Over the course of the day, Wynonna confiscates at least a dozen bunches of mistletoe and she’s sure she hasn’t gotten all of it, but as she mounts the stool to rip down another she shoots her sister a quick glare.  “You think you’re slick,” she says moodily.

“This has nothing to do with you, they’re _festive_ ,” Waverly replies shiftily, coloring. 

She doesn’t have time for a comeback because there’s a _very_ soft knock at the front door.  She does add with mock distrust, “This isn’t over,” as she goes to answer the door.

Nicole stands on the porch brandishing a dish like it’s her ticket inside.  “I brought cake,” she says, smiling almost shyly.  “Merry Christmas!”

Grinning, Wynonna ushers her in and laughs gently, “Yep, Merry Christmas.”  She takes the cake so Nicole can shrug out of her coat, revealing a truly hideous Christmas sweater.  “That is revolting… I’ve never seen you in civvies,” she says.

“That’s because the only time you hang out with me, you’re also trying to annoy my boss,” Nicole answers, smirking wryly.  “Wait—is that the only reason you like me?”

“You caught me.”  They laugh, and Wynonna leads her to the kitchen but stops short of the entryway, explaining dramatically, “She says I’m not allowed in the kitchen.  Something about explosions.”

Waverly takes a long time to tear her eyes away from Nicole to say, almost distantly, “You’ve lit kitchens on fire.  Plural!”

“Kitchens?” Nicole repeats, cocking a brow at her.

“I don’t have to take this,” Wynonna grunts, snatching her steaming cider off the table as she stalks, a little too exaggerated, out the front door.

\--

Dinner, as it were, is at seven.  He shows up at six forty-five and Wynonna’s outside, oddly respectable in jeans that don’t look like they’ve been through a wood-chipper and a soft looking sweater, bare hands wrapped around a mug.  In a voice totally void of irony or sarcasm, she greets him with, “Hey, I’m glad you came.”

“Thanks for having me,” he responds, feeling surreal in the normalcy of it.

She gives him a sweet smile, and he hands her the bottle of bourbon he’d brought (he was warned, under no uncertain terms, not to bring any food).  “Oh, we said no presents,” she teases, holding the bottle up at eye-level.

“That’s not a present for you,” he murmurs, “Should I take that back?”

“Well, I’m sure as hell not sharing it with anyone,” she responds, leaning close.  There’s a bloated pause and her eyes drop.  “Try this,” she says suddenly, holding out the mug.  Something about his face might betray some of his distrust because she scowls.  “What is it about you thinking we’re gonna poison you?”

“I don’t think you’re gonna poison me?”

Rolling her eyes, she says, “Well, not with potential witnesses.  Just try it.”

Dolls brings the hot mug to his lips and it’s very sweet and _very_ alcoholic, all cinnamon and apple and clove.  “Jesus, Earp,” he coughs, passing her drink back to her.

Absurdly pleased with herself, she nods to the door. “Okay, let’s get in there—I’m about to freeze my—“

“That’s probably good,” he interrupts.

“Yeah,” she chuckles.

Inside, it’s almost unrecognizable.  Everything’s draped in tinsel or fake holly, there’s snowmen everywhere, lights twisted around any free space—but something smells fantastic.  “It’s okay,” Wynonna says lowly behind him, “It’s natural to need a minute faced with all this tacky.  But could you have this breakdown a little further inside?  I’m still freezing.”

She slides around him and leads him to the kitchen, where Waverly and Officer Haught are hovering over the stove, possibly closer than strictly necessary.  “Leave room for Jesus, you two,” Wynonna calls, breaking between them to dip her finger into a pot.

“Thought you weren’t allowed in here,” Officer Haught grumbles, rubbing the back of her neck but looking on the verge of a smile.

“Only for official taste-testing business,” she replies quickly with a quick wink.

“Merry Christmas,” Waverly says, turning quickly to Dolls.

“Yeah,” he responds.  “Merry Christmas,” then, looking past her, “Officer.”

She wrinkles her nose.  “Just call me Nicole—that’s so weird.”

\--

For the life of her, Wynonna has no idea how her sister learned to cook any of this stuff but it was _delicious_.  Honestly, really, who even makes an edible turkey?  She’s going to die; she’s eaten so much.  It’s really a testament to how damn _good_ the food was that no one spoke until they’re all slouched down in their chairs, unable to shovel one more bite into their mouths.  She’s pretty sure she’s gained ten pounds from this meal alone.  Next to her, Dolls relaxes, knee pressing against hers, over-warm and comfortably heavy.

“God, Wave,” Wynonna groans, head dropping back.  She can see, just within the line of her vision, the way Waverly smiles, how Dolls nods and Nicole blows out a deep breath. 

“When I was little,” Nicole starts after a long time, “We always watched _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ every year after dinner on Christmas Eve—the animated one, of course.”

There’s a thoughtful pause, and then Waverly says, “Gus has this old advent calendar—it’s just a long strip of green felt with yarn on it, but for every day in December leading to Christmas Eve, there was a mini candy cane, and we… I got to take one off every day…”

“Daddy did that, too,” Wynonna whispers as she twists the hem of her sweater between her fingers.  She doesn’t look up to see the look the others are giving her, but Dolls presses his knee into hers a little bit harder before letting up.

“My grandma,” he says slowly, leaning forward and withdrawing his leg, “She had this pecan tree.  She made the grandkids shell them all morning so she could make enough pies for everyone.”  He’s looking down at his empty plate, lips twisted in a half-smile, and her heart about breaks for it, a question pressing against her tongue she can’t bring herself to voice—how long has it been?  She aches, just for a moment to grab his hands where they’re clasped under the table.

She settles for leaning over with a hand on his forearm, asking, “Help me with these?”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me in to doing dishes,” he snarks, already standing and piling plates.

\--

After getting all the leftovers packed away—and he has to physically stop Wynonna from picking at the mashed potatoes because she _literally just said she was too full to function_ —she looks up at him and suggests almost sweetly, “I wash you rinse and dry?”

“Sure,” he laughs, a little dazed with the domesticity of the moment.  He tosses a towel over his shoulder and leans against the counter while she fills up the sink.  She’s been uncharacteristically quiet through the whole process, so he asks, “You okay?”

Scoffing, she gives him a quick look.  “Yeah, I’m good.”  She elbows him gently, just under his ribs.  “So, pecan pies?”

“It was a long time ago,” Dolls hears himself explain.  “But we all got together and there were so many of us—and her pecan pies were _famous_.”  He stops, chews the inside of his cheek.  “I haven’t been able to get back since I enlisted.”  He’s careful to keep his voice from dropping, no hint of sadness or regret, but the face she’s pulling makes him feel like he wasn’t all that successful.

“That’s gotta be hard,” she observes eventually, voice a little rough.

“We email a lot, I call when I can,” he answers dismissively.

Now it’s Wynonna’s turn to chew on it.  Then, without warning, she flicks dishwater at him, mumbling too softly to really hear about “too deep for Christmas.”

“How _old_ are you?” he demands, flicking her with the towel before swiping it at his neck.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—that was an accident,” she says, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice.

“So mature.”

“Oh, I’ll _show_ you mature,” she crows, and the next moment there’s water dripping down his face.

There’s a moment of tense silence, she’s got her lips pursed but her shoulders are shaking with silent laughter as he stares forward in quiet disbelief.

He reaches into the dishwater to slop a heavy handful at her, and she _shrieks_.

It pretty much devolves from there.

\--

“What are you two _doing_?” Waverly yells from the doorway, and even though she _wants_ to explain why there’s soapy water everywhere she’s screaming with laughter, doubled over, and Dolls isn’t in any sort of dignified state either.  She laughs until her stomach aches and tears stream down her face, stops long enough to register her sister and Nicole staring at them like they’re growing extra heads, and starts all over again.

It’s minutes before she’s able to stop giggling, chest sore and gripping Dolls to keep from toppling over.

Waverly looks at Nicole and stage-whispers, “Do you smell a gas leak?”

“I thought you two were supposed to be cleaning,” Nicole taunts.

“He started it,” Wynonna says, trying _really_ hard to keep from bursting into another fit.

Her sister eyes them suspiciously before tugging Nicole’s sleeve, mumbling quickly, “We’re gonna go watch _How the Grinch Stole Christmas_ on my computer.  Try not to break anything.”

Then they’re left alone and Wynonna is _very_ conscious of how much she’s touching Dolls right now and she feels every part of her heat up.  She wants to say something she should really say something literally anything wow when did her brain turn into pudding _say something_ —

“We should, um,” she whispers, eyes dropping, “Probably finish cleaning up.”

“Yep, exactly what I was thinking,” he responds.

But they don’t break away for about a beat too long.

When they are able to, they do eventually get the dishes done, but the quiet hangs between them thick, heavy.  She feels every movement where their arm touch, every time their fingers brush sends a quick shiver jolting through her and it’s _really distracting_ and inconvenient.  Then again, it definitely incentivizes finishing as quickly as possible.  And she does, draining the sink before he’s even done rinsing the last of them and moving to a safe distance.  If he notices, he doesn’t mention it.

Biting her lip hard, she moves to the window and peeks out.  It’s snowing, fat flakes falling heavily.  She can’t even see the cars anymore.  A big, warm hand lands gently in the middle of her back and he leans close to peer outside with her. 

“Wow,” is all he says, low and right next to her ear.

\--

Wynonna twists, and there’s barely any room between them when she whispers, “Come outside with me.”

They fix up two mugs of still-hot cider; he helps her into her coat, follows her out onto the porch where suddenly the world is soft and bright with the silvery moon.

Her breath mists when she says, “I missed this so much.  I would—I always said I didn’t miss anything but I missed _this_.”  There’s something low, sad in her voice and he can’t keep himself—doesn’t try to keep himself—from taking her hand.  It takes a long time before she pulls her gaze away from the heavy falling snow and looks over at him.  “Do you like snow?” she asks, and it’s such an innocuous, simple question and he’s never been asked that before.

All he can do is nod.

She smiles.  It’s not masking pain, it’s not wry and self-deprecating, it’s a big, honest-to-god smile that he’s _never_ seen before.  It’s a goddamn Christmas miracle.  She takes one big drink of cider and sets the mug on the ground, and he follows suit, lets her tug him down the steps.  The sound of their footfalls are muted and nothing feels quite real in only the way it can in the middle of a snowfall.

When she stops, he stops, watching as she tips her head back to stare up at the night sky and it’s so _cliché_ but he realizes all he wants is to kiss the melting snow off her lips.

She catches him staring and her smile softens slowly.  “What?”

“Can I kiss you?” he asks suddenly.

Suddenly, she launches up onto her toes to press their lips together, hot with the bite of cinnamon and apples.  It’s quick, and he chases her when she pulls back just a little and her smile now is a little smug.

He kisses her again until their gasping, icy air stinging in his throat, bracing.

“You should stay tonight,” she whispers against his lips, eyes half-closed.  “Not safe to drive.”

“Well, if you insist,” he teases, pressing forward again.

**Author's Note:**

> Look, it's the Christmas fic in May nobody asked for!! Man, this ship owns me completely.
> 
> As always, drop by my [Tumblr](http://johnisntevendead.tumblr.com) and talk to me about Wynonna Earp!
> 
> Fun Fact: I don't celebrate Christmas but I did as a kid and all of the traditions named were pulled from things different branches of my family did when I was kids. (Even the pecans. Blistered fingers for days.)


End file.
